


At My Side

by raiining



Series: On My Shoulder [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, M/M, Major Character Death (temporary), Underage Sex (age 17), Underage Smoking, devil!Clint, mention of suicidal thoughts (minor but present)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 09:55:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4824485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/pseuds/raiining
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil’s not a golden boy led unwillingly down the darker path.  He’s fully prepared to enjoy the ride.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At My Side

**Author's Note:**

> Wonderful thank you's to my fabulous beta team - Orderlychaos, Ralkana, and Desert_Neon. *super hugs* I adore you all. Thank you for absolutely everything.

“That boy’s got a devil on his shoulder,” Phil’s grandmother says.

Phil cocks his head at her. He doesn’t know her very well - she’s not from around here, she’s from ‘away’ - but he likes her. She’s interesting, with her poofy hair and trail of cigarette smoke. She’s like a shrewd, smelly cloud - but in a good way.

Phil’s mother sighs. She’s been doing that a lot lately, ever since Phil’s grandmother arrived. She steps forward and takes the butter knife from Phil’s hand, picking him up and depositing him completely on the other side of the room from where he wants to be.

“It’s fine, Mama,” Phil’s mother says. “Every baby wants to play with the electrical socket.”

Phil pouts. Getting back to his feet is hard to do, but he does it, and then starts the slow, tottering walk back to the interesting thing.

Phil’s grandmother cocks an eyebrow at him. “No, I know that look,” she says decisively. “He’s too smart for his own good, and too stupid to care.” She cackles. “You’d better watch him, Mary. He’s going to be trouble.”

“Yes, Mama,” Phil’s mother says. She scoops Phil up before he’s even halfway back across the room and carries him around on her hip instead. Phil considers protesting, but his mother is warm, so he doesn’t. 

He _thinks_ he sees the flicker of red eyes watching him for a moment, from the floor, right beside the interesting thing, but Phil isn’t scared. He smiles. The eyes smile back, and then one of them goes out, like it’s winking, and then the other goes out, too. Phil watches the space where they were for a moment, but nothing else happens, so he curls up on his mother’s shoulder and goes to sleep.

 

*

 

Phil sees the eyes sometimes, here and there, but not too often and never anything more than the eyes. Phil’s a good boy, most of the time, and the eyes only come out when he’s doing something bad. They grin when they appear, and seem to fan the flame of reckless energy that lives in Phil’s chest. It’s quiet and small most of the time, but occasionally it’ll flare to life, and then Phil will see how far he can jump off the couch, or if he really _can_ climb to the top of the fence post and fly.

This time, it’s different, though - the energy isn’t so much a little flame as a roaring blaze, and it’s not so much reckless as it is red and hot and _angry._ Phil needs to _move_ \- needs to run and jump and destroy something. He’s wearing a suit that his mother said he can’t get dirty, and that just makes him want to get it _really_ ripped - like roll around in the dirt and then set it on fire.

“Hey,” a boy says, appearing from behind the sea of adults dressed in black, murmuring and talking in low voices at Phil’s father’s funeral. He’s Phil’s age and he’s dressed in a suit, but his hair is tousled and pointing up every which way. Phil looks around for one of his aunts, expecting someone to appear with a tutt-tutt and a comb, but nobody does. 

Nobody seems to notice the boy at all, actually. 

The boy grins at Phil, wild and free, and his eyes, when Phil looks at them, are red. Flames flicker in their depths. “Want to get out of here?”

Phil looks into those eyes and grins. “Yeah.”

They spend the rest of the funeral throwing rocks at the apartment building next door and making a pile out of the garbage they find in an alleyway. Phil steals a lighter from one of his uncles, and the boy laughs as Phil sets the garbage on fire. It goes out pretty quickly despite their best efforts. In the excitement, Phil rips his suit, and gets the shirt underneath it tattered and dirty. His aunts scold him when they find him, hours later.

“What did you do? _Look_ at you!” they cry, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck to haul him back inside.

Phil looks back over his Aunt Rachel’s shoulder. The boy is staring at Phil’s family, and there’s a look on his face - like longing - but then Phil catches his eye, and he grins again, the fire back behind his eyes.

Phil smiles into that fire, and then - just as the door between them is about to close - winks. The boy laughs and winks back. 

 

*

 

Phil doesn’t see the boy for a while again after that, but he reappears the day Phil hits Sam Duncan in his stupid, lying face and gets sent to the Principal’s Office.

“Psst - hey, Phil!” the boy hisses, standing just beyond the partially open window of the administration waiting room. When Phil looks up, the boy waves. He’s wearing a light purple t-shirt and baggy jeans this time, and his hair is a little longer than it used to be, flopping forward into his eyes. 

His eyes still flicker red. Phil grins and slides off his chair, crossing to the sill. The Catholic school he goes to has a crucifix hanging over every window, but Phil ducks under it and hops over the short wall onto the grass. “Hey.”

The boy grins. “Let’s go.”

They spend the afternoon running through the fields that border Phil’s boring, nothing town, avoiding adults and throwing rocks into the pond. They find a couple of half-empty cans of spray paint and write rude words Phil’s never actually said out loud into the bank of the river, and then they collapse, hours later, just when it’s starting to get dark.

Phil peers up into the red-tinged sky and vaguely considers going home. He knows his mother is probably frantic. He can’t quite bring himself to care though, so he glances over his shoulder at the boy instead.

“So,” Phil says, speaking into the silence that’s settled between them. “What’s your name?”

The boy seems to think about that for a minute, chewing on his bottom lip. Finally, he shrugs. “I don’t know.”

Phil squints into the setting sun. “How about ‘Clint?’” 

The boy looks over at him. “Why ‘Clint?’”

Phil shrugs like his dad’s favourite movie hadn’t been _A Fistful of Dollars._ “I don’t know.”

“Okay,” the boy says. He lifts his arms above his head and leans back, stretching his legs out along the grass. “Clint. I like it.”

Phil smiles.

 

*

 

“So what do you want to do today?” Clint asks, leaning against the pitted wood of the porch.

“I don’t know,” Phil answers with a shrug, taking another pull off the cigarettes he’d found hidden behind the couch. They were his dad’s cigarettes - it’s, like, his _duty_ to smoke them. “What - ” he has to stop to cough. “What do you want to do today?”

“I don’t know,” Clint says. He reaches out and plucks the cigarette from Phil’s hand, puts it to his lips and sucks in a clean, easy draw, before blowing the smoke out his nose. It curls into horns around his head, and his eyes dance. “It’s up to you.”

Phil scowls. Clint always looks so _cool_ when he does stuff like that, while Phil looks like an idiot. The way Clint’s lips wrap around the cigarette makes him feel weird, too. Phil’s fourteen now, but Clint always seems to be a bit younger than he should be, like he can’t quite grow up as fast. Phil steals the cigarette back and then grinds it into a stub under his shoe. “I don’t know, let’s go downtown or whatever.”

They end up sneaking into a bar too full of old geezers to care about carding them. Phil eyes the bar, wondering if that apathy would extend to getting them a drink, but decides not to risk it. Besides, there’s a pool table in the back, frayed with age and stained by spilled drinks, but still good, and Phil’s always wanted to play. Clint seems to know the rules, or at least enough to know that you have to hit the other balls with the white ball, but he’s shorter than Phil and has a harder time reaching over the edge of the table.

“Shut up,” he grumbles, when his cue goes wide again. “I’m an amazing shot, you’ll see.”

“Uh huh,” Phil teases, and takes the stick back.

“No, hey, it’s still my turn,” Clint argues, and reaches for it, but Phil dances out of the way and laughs.

Clint growls and lunges for him, and then they're tussling, laughing back and forth. Clint pinches him, trying to make him give it up, and Phil shouts and pinches back.

“Hey!” someone interrupts, and Phil looks up to see the bar manager storming out from the back, a furious look on her face. “What the hell are you doing in here? Get out!”

Phil rolls his eyes and climbs to his feet, while Clint snickers on the ground behind him. “Whatever,” Phil says, grumbles. “We weren’t doing anything.”

“I don’t care, I’ll lose my damn license if anyone sees you, get the fuck out,” she snarls, and points at the door. “ _Both_ of you,” she emphasizes, glaring at Clint while he grins from the floor.

Clint’s eyes go wide, but he scrambles to his feet and hurries after Phil. Phil huffs and shoves his hands into his pockets, feeling stupid and young and embarrassed. “What the hell was she so pissed about? It’s not like anyone was going to care.”

“I - I don’t know,” Clint says, still looking a little shocked. Maybe he’s never been kicked out of a bar before.

Phil squints into the sun to try and get a sense of the time. “Well, what do you want to do now? We could head down to the creek again?”

“Yeah, sure,” Clint agrees, and follows him down.

 

*

 

“Still good,” Clint calls softly, scanning the streets up and down. He’s leaning back against the car, trying to look nonchalant, but Phil can hear the thread of excitement in his voice. “Nobody’s looking.”

“Okay, keep it up,” Phil orders, the majority of his attention fixed on the wires under his fingers. Ralph had said he just had to strip them, and then wind them together and the car would start. “Almost got it.”

“Uh - new person turning the corner,” Clint says. Phil looks up to see him squinting. “Might be a cop.”

Phil peers into the darkness. It’s late at night, and the streetlights are dim. “You can see that?”

“Shut up, I have good eyes,” Clint grumbles. “Hold on - yup, it’s a cop!” He turns towards Phil. “Come on, let’s go.”

“I’ve almost got it,” Phil protests, ducking back down. He’d bet Ralph he could do it. Ralph’s eighteen, two years older than Phil, and he’s probably watching. “Distract them or something.”

“What?” Clint asks, irritated. “With what?” 

“I don’t know - smile at them or something,” Phil growls. “People can usually see you now.” He tries to spark the two wires together, but nothing happens. “Come on, come _on._ ”

“Uh, Phil…” Clint warns, and then his tone changes. “Um - hello, Officer. Lovely night we’re having.”

“Save it,” a familiar woman’s voice replies. Something taps on the window. “Phil,” Constance McMillan says. “Get out of there. _Now._ ”

Phil sighs and climbs out the passenger door. McMillan is one of his mother’s oldest friends. “Hello, Mucks.”

“That’s _Officer McMillan_ to you,” she growls, as if Phil hasn’t seen her tipsy and holding a cocktail more than once or twice. “What were you doing in there?”

Phil scoffs. He's sure Ralph’s watching, so he’s not going to grovel. “What did it look like?”

McMillan glares. “Don’t you sass me, Phil,” she says, and then she sighs, sounding so disappointed. “What would your father say?”

Phil flushes. The anger that has been a part of him for so long flares again. “I don’t know,” he spits. “My father’s dead.”

“Yeah, he is,” McMillan says instead of rising to the bait. “He died serving his country. How will you die, Phil?” She gestures to the darkness of Main Street. “Stuck in the back with a knife? That’s what happens to boys like you, you know.”

Phil glares at her. From the shadows, Clint looks vaguely guilty. “I won’t get stabbed,” Phil argues. “I know how to defend myself.”

“Oh yeah?” McMillan taunts. She steps closer, and Phil wavers. She’s taller than him, and looks stronger, too. He’s fought some people before - Ralph once, and others, and he’s tussled with Clint loads of times - but there’s a steadiness to her that Phil knows, in his gut, he can’t beat.

He envies that.

McMillan must see it on his face, because she shakes her head and steps back. “You’re a good kid, Phil. You just fell in with the wrong crowd. The path you’re walking leads nowhere good.”

Phil resolutely _does not_ look at Clint. “I know where it goes,” he says. He’s not an idiot.

McMillan glares. “Then do something about it.”

Phil flattens his lips and says nothing. He won’t explain it to her - he has a hard enough time explaining it to himself - but he _wants_ this, he _needs_ this, and he gets to do it all with Clint at his side.

Why would he ever change that?

McMillan writes Phil a reprimand and sends him on his way. Clint follows him silently back to his house, and stands in the shadows while Phil’s mother yells, and then cries, and then bites back her tears and sends him to his room.

Phil’s never been entirely certain if his mother can see Clint or not. He’s never asked.

“Maybe McMillan was right,” Clint says, when they’re back in Phil’s room and the door is closed. Phil’s chest is heaving, and he’s so _many_ things - angry and disappointed and furious and sad - that he’s having a hard time sorting out which emotion he feels most at the moment. “Maybe you should stop.”

“Stop _what?_ ” Phil demands, whirling on him. “Stop having fun? Stop hanging out with you? Stop - stop _what_ exactly, Clint?”

Clint flinches, but stands his ground. “Stop all of it.”

Phil glares. “I never expected this from _you,_ you know. Aren’t you supposed to be on my side? Aren’t you supposed to be - ” He gestures. “ - dragging me down to Hell, or whatever?”

Clint’s shoulders hunch. “That doesn’t matter,” he says. “It’s just - ” He straightens. “You’ve got a _mom,_ Phil. And a house and a life and I - ” He swallows. “I don’t want to see you lose that.”

Phil huffs and throws himself onto the bed. He’s still got his jacket and boots on, but he doesn’t care. “Whatever. I won’t lose that.”

“You might,” Clint says quietly. “And then what?”

“And then I’ve got you,” Phil snaps.

Clint glances at him - just once - and then he sits on the floor, leaning back against Phil’s bed and tipping his head over so he can stare at Phil. “Yeah,” he says softly. “You do.”

 

*

 

Phil starts military school in the morning. 

He’s pissed about it. He stomps around the house after his mother tells him that he’s going, and he seriously debates running away. He’s only sixteen, though. What would he do?

“I could join the circus,” Phil says, just tossing out ideas.

Clint pales. “No,” he says. “Please don’t.”

The military bus arrives and someone in a uniform gets off to escort him on. Phil glares at him, and at everyone else on the bus. Some are younger than him, some are older, and while a couple match his glare with one of their own, there are enough who stare at him calmly and serenely, and remind him of Officer McMillan.

It’s enough to make Phil take his seat, even though he leaves enough room for Clint. Clint sits down beside him, and they stare at each other and at the people around them as the bus continues on its way. 

They don’t talk. Phil is never quite sure if people see Clint, and he doesn’t want to be labelled as a crazy person on his first day, but he can’t stop his gasp of surprise when Clint grunts in pain and suddenly disappears.

Phil spins around in his seat, looking for him. They’ve just crossed into the school, and Phil realizes there’s a large cross hanging on the gate that surrounds the property. He looks out the back of the bus and, sure enough, there’s Clint - standing on the road staring after the bus, a furious expression on his face.

Phil debates getting off and running back to him, but Clint catches his eye and shakes his head. Phil flattens his lips together. Fuck Clint’s opinion. Phil could make it over the wall. He could - 

But then the gate closes behind the bus, two military officers in sharp uniforms and shiny buttons striding forward to stand guard, and Clint raises his eyebrows in a _told you so_ expression. Phil reluctantly turns around. Later. He’ll make his escape later.

 

*

 

‘Later’ takes longer than Phil thought.

Military school is - different. It’s _challenging._ It’s not just the workload, which isn’t too different from the stuff he had before, at least until his teachers realize he’s sailing through it and up the difficulty level - but it’s the whole attitude of the school.

There are rules about _everything,_ and they’re continually enforced. When to get up, when to sleep, when to eat, and when to use the fucking bathroom. It’s like being in jail, except there’s PT, and the relentless volume of work.

There are also guards everywhere, and it takes Phil six weeks to decide how he’s going to break out. He won’t be able to take anything with him, but he’s got a knife and the boots that he’s wearing. It’ll have to be enough.

Finally, the moment comes. Phil walks calmly through the school after the lights are out, avoids the patrols he has memorized, and scales the outer wall. Clint meets him the instant he takes seven steps off the property, tackling him the moment he appears.

“Are you okay? What did they do to you? Those bastards - they shaved your _hair!_ ”

Phil makes a face and pats the ridiculously short bristles on the top of his head. “Yeah,” he admits. He’s still sore about that. Those hairs are probably gone for good.

Clint leans back enough to stare into Phil’s eyes, searching. “Are you okay?” he asks. Fire rises behind his eyes. “Do I have to burn the school to the ground?”

Phil smiles, touched. “I’m okay.” He reaches up to squeeze Clint’s shoulders. “I’m good, actually. School is - it’s not bad.”

It isn’t. It’s different, but it’s not bad, and Phil feels different, too. He feels good. Strong. The PT is annoying, but it helps him focus - it gives him a way to expel his anger. 

“Good,” Clint says. His shoulders are warm under Phil’s hands, the fire in his eyes still flickering. His gaze travels up and down Phil’s body. “You look good.”

Phil’s skin warms under the heat of that gaze. He’s suddenly very aware of how close Clint is standing, and how _good_ it is to see him again. This is the longest they’ve ever been apart since Clint started regularly appearing in his life, and Phil’s _missed_ him.

Clint looks good, too. He’s wearing a thin t-shirt, purple because he says it’s his favourite colour, and he feels warm. 

Phil doesn’t touch Clint very often. They’ll spar, and wrestle, but aside from that, they don’t make a lot of contact. Phil strokes his hand over Clint’s shoulder and wonders why.

At the motion, Clint’s eyes darken. The fire in his eyes stirs, like someone’s fanned the coals, and Phil looks into that heat and smiles. 

“Hi,” he says again, his voice lower this time.

“Hi,” Clint echoes. His hands, which had been on Phil’s back, begin to wander. “Phil…”

Phil steps even closer to him, sliding his hand forward to cup Clint’s chin. “Yes?”

Clint’s eyes trace his lips. “Are you - ” he croaks, before clearing his throat and trying again. “Are you sure?”

Phil smiles. His body is warm, a delicious flush spreading over his skin, and his cock is stirring. He turned seventeen last week, and he’s very, _very_ sure. “Yes.”

Clint’s tongue peeks out, wetting his bottom lip, and his voice comes out a rasp. “I need you to be sure.”

“Why?” Phil asks, teasing. He leans forward, brushing their cheeks together. “Isn’t seduction one of your skills?” he whispers into Clint’s ear. “Aren’t you supposed to drag me into sin, kicking and screaming?”

Clint moans at the contact, at the way Phil’s now plastered against his chest. His fingers tighten around Phil’s back, holding him close, but his voice, when he speaks, is too honest. “I don’t want to drag you.”

“You won’t need to,” Phil promises. 

Clint leans back enough to look into his eyes. “And I don’t want you kicking,” he says, almost teasing.

Phil grins and leans forward, closing the last small distance between them. “What about screaming?” he asks against Clint’s lips.

Clint gives in and opens his mouth. Phil plunders it. He doesn’t think first kisses are supposed to be this good - but it’s _Clint._ He’s wonderful, so wet and hot and so very, _very_ good.

“Fuck,” Clint groans as he drags them both to the ground. “I am so going to Hell for this.”

Phil laughs. 

 

*

 

Afterward, Phil surprises them both by going back.

“It’s not actually that terrible,” he admits as he pulls his pants back on. “I mean it’s hard, and the teachers are assholes, but it - ” He shrugs. “It’s not that bad.”

Clint nods, watching him from the grass. The forest that surrounds the school ends in a farmer’s field a few meters away, but there's enough cover that Phil knows no one will see them. “You were always too big for the place you were in.”

Phil makes a face. “Well,” he says, “it’ll give me some experience, at least.” He has no intention of being a grunt when he gets to Hell. “Besides,” he goes on, “when they let me out, I’ll have a gun and a mission, and then we can cause some _real_ trouble.”

Clint laughs. “So, instead of getting stabbed, you’re going to get shot?”

Phil grins. “Probably.”

Clint rolls his eyes. “Fine, but the minute you’re out, I’m coming with you.”

Phil holds out his hand, and Clint takes it, using the leverage to climb to his feet. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

 

*

 

Clint’s as good as his word. 

It takes a little longer to get out then Phil had thought, because the military decides it wants to send him to college so he can do officer training, and that hadn’t been on Phil’s agenda. He debates saying no, but he’s seen the chumps they have in charge, and is firmly of the opinion that he can do better.

Clint joins him in college as much as he can. They make fun of professors together, Clint quizzes him to help him get through tests, and they run together every morning. They also sleep together every night, and Phil gets used to waking up with Clint’s octopus legs tangled around his, his matted hair in Phil’s face.

He smiles into that ridiculous mop every morning, before kissing Clint’s eyebrow and dragging him out of bed.

The military - when they finally let Phil in the field - seems to accept Clint without question. He seems most real to others when he’s standing next to Phil. When he walks away, people look confused for a moment, and then they blink, and then they seem to forget he was ever there. Even Marcus, who is the first real friend Phil thinks he’s ever had - who’s human, at least - frowns a lot when the military asks how many people are in their squad.

“Two fireteams of four,” Clint steps forward and says, which is technically correct, except that on paper one of those teams has only three. 

“Right,” the bureaucrat says, her eyes glazing over. She shakes her head and makes a notation on the pad in front of her. “Of course.”

Their squad works well together, and soon Phil and Marcus - and Clint - find themselves volunteered for Rangers training. It’s the most intense education Phil’s ever survived in his life, and he thrives on it.

“Jesus Christ,” Marcus swears, dodging live fire as he catches on to Phil’s plan and chases after him. “You are one reckless motherfucker.”

Phil catches Clint’s eye and grins.

Eventually they’re sent out into the world to do some _real_ damage, and Phil absolutely loves it. He basks in the high he gets from kicking over the hornet’s nest and striding forward into the chaos, Clint at his side as they complete the mission. The killing doesn’t bother him, or the pressure, and Clint is there to moan into his mouth every night and fuck him whenever they can find a moment alone together without the brass finding out, which is a great stress reliever.

Phil is so glad that Clint decided to join their team - he’s absolutely essential, the best fucking marksman anyone has ever seen. “It’s like he’s inhuman,” Marcus swears when Clint makes a shot that should, by every reasonable standard, be impossible. 

Phil grins and squeezes Clint’s shoulder as he disassembles the sniper rifle. “He’s pretty amazing.”

Clint looks up at Phil and winks. “I told you I was good.”

The recklessness that has always lived in Phil’s heart is given free reign, and it feels wonderful. They travel all over the world, to every hot spot, and take down bad guys wherever they go. Sometimes Phil wonders if _they_ are the bad guys, but Clint is there to distract him from such thoughts, and really, Phil doesn’t care. He’s having _fun._ He’s doing what he's supposed to do.

One day Marcus corners him in the Mess. “Can I talk to you boys?” he asks, glancing between Phil and Clint.

Phil nods for both of them, and they step into the hallway. “What’s up?”

“I got an interesting phone call this morning,” Marcus says, after looking around to make sure they won’t be overheard. “Someone by the name of Agent May. She didn’t tell me much, but she did say she was from S.H.I.E.L.D., and she asked us to be careful on our next op.”

Phil frowns. Everyone’s heard of S.H.I.E.L.D, even if no one really know what they stand for. It’s an international anti-terrorist organization of some sort. “Be careful how?”

Marcus shakes his head. “I don’t know. I want to go over our exit strategy again, though.”

Clint snorts. “What strategy? We make our own exit, we always do.”

Marcus glares. “Yeah, well, this time I want to have one laid out for us.” 

Phil puts a hand on Clint’s arm. “I’ll handle it,” he assures Marcus. He can, he just doesn’t, usually. “Not a problem.”

Clint pushes his way into Phil’s arms a little more forcibly that night. 

“What?” Phil asks, dragging him close. Clint is warm and heavy and perfect, and he always smells so right.

“I don’t know,” Clint admits, burying his face in Phil’s chest. “I don’t like it, though.”

“We’ll be fine,” Phil assures him. 

He believes it, too, at least until Marcus is bleeding out, his left eye just fucking _gone,_ and Clint is panting and trying to keep Phil’s guts inside his body where they belong. The desert around them is stained with blood, and Phil hates to admit that most of it is his.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Clint is chanting. Phil knows the other members of their squad are dead or as good as, cut off from supplies and reinforcements, and trapped behind enemy lines.

“I’m sorry,” Phil coughs. This is all his fault, he should have had a backup plan, he should have - “Clint - ”

“Don’t worry about me,” Clint interrupts. “I’m fine, of course I’m fucking fine, I’m not - ” He stops, worry and fear and guilt on his face. “Phil. You’re dying.”

Phil nods. “I know.” He does. He can feel it. Without serious medical attention, he’s not getting out of this alive. But - “It’s okay,” he assures Clint. “It’s fine, I always knew it would come to this, it’s just - ” He turns his head to look at Marcus. He’s unconscious, but still breathing. “We need to get Marcus out.”

Clint swallows. “How?”

“We’ll have to carry him,” Phil says. “He’ll never make it on his own.” He tries to turn over, but he can’t - a sharp lance of pain keeps him on his side. Phil reaches a hand up. “Help me.”

Clint stares at him, his face pale. “I don’t know if I can do that.”

Phil squints. “What? Just - ” He waves his hand in the air. “Just help me up, Clint.” 

Clint looks scared. “Phil, I - I can’t. The Boss won’t like it.”

Phil scowls. He sore, he’s tired, and he’s _dying,_ for fuck’s sake - he doesn’t know what Clint’s talking about. The Brass won’t care if a semi-real soldier gets the job done. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“This isn’t me helping you cause chaos,” Clint explains, his voice desperate. “This is me giving you a chance to do heroic stuff before you die. Don’t you understand what that means?”

“No,” Phil spits out. “I don’t. I’m in a lot of fucking pain, and I don’t have time for arguing over semantics. Fuck whatever it is, anyway. Just help me.”

Clint bites his bottom lip, but shakes his head. “I can’t.”

“Fine,” Phil snarls. He summons whatever strength he can find and turns over. He manages, but when he tries to get his feet under him, he has to stop and pant instead. “ _Fuck._ ”

“Phil,” Clint starts, takes two steps forward, and then stops. “I - ”

“Shut the fuck up,” Phil says. He takes two deep, shuddering breaths, and then pushes himself to his feet. “Oh, _Christ._ ”

“Jesus, Son of God, fuck me sideways,” Clint curses, hurrying forward and catching Phil before he can fall. “Fine, fine! Just hold the fuck still.”

Phil scowls, but he does as he’s told, wincing as Clint winds a white field bandage around his middle. It immediately turns red.

“Sorry,” Clint murmurs.

Phil bites his lip, holding back another angry comment. “It’s fine,” he says instead. He does feel better when Clint’s done, anyway - more stable. He’s able to limp over to Marcus. He’s still pissed enough to turn to glare at Clint, though. “Are you going to help me?” 

Clint hesitates, but nods, and holds Phil steady while they arrange Marcus over Phil’s shoulders in a fireman’s carry. Phil feels terrible, but he can walk. Clint backs off once they’re done, worrying at his bottom lip.

“Oh, for - The radio,” Phil says. He tries to reach it, but he can’t. 

Clint closes his eyes, but he nods. “I’ll get it,” he says. He steps forward and plucks the radio from Marcus’s belt. “Conroy Base, Conroy Base,” he says, “this is Echo Nine-Four requesting immediate evac. Repeat - this is Echo Nine-Four requesting immediate evac.”

The radio crackles. “Echo Nine-Four, this is Conroy Base. Evac enroute. What’s your status?”

Clint opens his mouth, but then there’s a burst of gunfire from somewhere around them. They all duck and cover. Phil grunts, Marcus’s weight almost impossible to manage.

“I’ll take care of it,” Clint says, tucking the radio under Phil’s arm and loading another clip in his weapon. “Go. The helicopter will meet you at the evac site.”

Phil glares at Clint. “I’m not going anywhere without you.”

Clint scowls. “I’ve made my Choice, Phil. Now _go._ ”

“Listen, I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but I have never left you behind before and I’m not leaving you behind now. I want - ” Phil starts, but Marcus cuts him off, shifting on Phil’s back with a groan.

Phil hesitates, and Clint wastes no time, pushing him forward towards the evac site. “Seriously, Phil - you wanted to get Marcus out, so get him out.”

Phil swallows. Dammit, but Clint is right. “I’ll be back for you in ten.”

Clint shakes his head. “No.”

“I’ll be _back_ for _you_ in _ten,_ ” Phil repeats with a snarl. “So you’d better fucking _be here_.”

Clint steps forward, but the gunfire starts again. He whirls around, looking for their attacker. “Fucking fuck, Phil. Just go!” he says, and starts to run.

Phil watches him go, desperate to follow, but Marcus’s presence on his shoulders means that he can’t. Hoisting Marcus more securely, Phil hurries as quickly as he can to the evac site. He has to get his friend to safety, and then he’ll be back. 

 

*

 

The helicopter crew doesn’t want to let Phil go. He’s covered in blood and clearly injured, but he’s not leaving Clint behind. When he tries to protest that he left a man on the ground, the crew looks confused. “This was only a squad of seven, sir,” the airman argues. “We picked up the men trapped behind lines ten minutes ago.”

Phil shakes his head. “There were eight!” he argues, limping away from the helicopter. “Go! I’ll radio in later!”

The airman shouts something, but the radio crackles and the pilot is forced to ascend. Phil grunts as he ducks out of the way of the rotor blades and does his best to hurry back to where Clint was last standing. 

“Clint!” Phil shouts, looking around the trashed camp. “Clint!”

He hears a cough, and then a gurgling sound. Phil tears past broken boxes and torn tents and stops only when he sees a body, dropping to his knees as he recognizes that mop of sandy blonde hair. “ _Clint._ ”

Clint smiles. There’s blood leaking out of the corner of his mouth, and his chest is a raw, bloody mess. Phil doesn’t understand what’s going on.

“What happened? What are you - _how_ are you - ?” Clint’s never been hurt in all the years they’ve been together. He’s never gotten so much as a papercut.

“I told you,” Clint manages with a cough. Blood stains his lips. “The Boss didn’t like it.”

Phil feels a sharp, terrible pang in his chest. “This is my fault.”

“No,” Clint argues. He shifts, lifting a hand up. Phil catches it and drags it close. “It’s mine. I made the Choice, Phil. It’s mine.” He coughs again. “Don’t take this from me.”

Phil closes his eyes and swallows. “Okay,” he whispers. He leans down and presses their foreheads together. “Okay, I won’t.”

“Good,” Clint sighs. His eyes close, then struggle open again. Phil leans back just enough to meet his gaze. The fire in Clint’s eyes flickers, dims, and then goes out. 

Phil stares at the colours that are revealed - the blue and green and brown, the whirlwind of hazel. “Beautiful,” he murmurs.

Clint smiles, takes one last breath, and dies.

 

* 

 

Marcus finds him sometime later, wracked with fever and barely holding onto consciousness. He’d been ambushed just minutes after Clint had died, and he’d lost his radio in the scuffle. When he’d tried to go back for Clint’s, Phil had found that his body had disappeared - completely gone, no trace of it remaining, and all of his equipment gone with him.

It was like Clint had never been.

That loss had been like a punch to a gut. Phil had actually stumbled, and then found it hard to get up again. His wounds were serious, but more than that was the reality that Clint was gone from his life. He’d been there - he’d _always_ been there - and now he wasn’t.

Phil had done his best to sit tight and wait for rescue, but though his wounds had seemed to stop bleeding, infection had clearly set in. Phil’s not sure how much time has passed, and he’s probably starting to hallucinate, because a man who looks like Marcus is staring down at him. He’s wearing black BDU’s and he’s moving stiffly, but more than that, he’s wearing an eyepatch and his face is grim. 

“I found you,” the man sighs. “Jesus Christ, you motherfucker.”

“Clint’s gone,” Phil says, because it’s the only phrase that has any meaning left for him. “He’s gone forever.”

“Who’s Clint?” Maybe-Marcus asks, crouching down beside him 

“Of course you don’t remember,” Phil says with a cough. It comes out wet. The hallucination reaches forward and takes the gun from Phil’s hands. Phil would care, except he can’t care about anything right now. Sweat trickles down his forehead, and Phil knows he’s shaking with fever.

“Clint is Clint,” Phil tries to explain, but he knows that’s not enough. The woman standing beside Marcus frowns. Phil doesn’t know her, she has long dark hair and looks Asian, and she’s wearing some sort of uniform with an eagle on the breast. 

“Okay,” Marcus agrees, clearly playing along. “Clint is Clint. Our focus right now is on you, though, Phil.” He turns his head to look at the woman. “Can you radio in for support?”

“Already done,” the woman says. She peers at Phil. “He might not make it.”

“He’ll make it,” Marcus says stubbornly. He looks back at Phil. “Do you hear me, Cheese? You’ll make it.”

Phil can’t tell if he’s crying, or if it’s just the sweat stinging his eyes. He tries to shake his head. “You don’t understand, he’s _gone,_ ” he thinks he says, but then he’s waking up in a hospital room, tired and alone. 

“Clint?” Phil asks, because Clint is _always_ waiting for him when he wakes up - except that of course Clint isn’t here, because Clint is dead.

Phil closes his eyes and sleeps again, because he’d rather be away from the world for a while. 

When he wakes up later, Phil’s head is clearer. He thinks through his options, and seriously debates killing himself. Suicide is supposed to be a one-way ticket to Hell, isn’t it? That’s what Father Graff always said. Except Phil’s not one hundred percent sure about that, and he needs to be sure, because he might only have one shot at this. 

His days of going off half-cocked are over. 

Unfortunately, hard data is difficult to find. Marcus comes into his room while he’s skimming the Bible, trying to glean some clues from its butchered array. Half the words contradict each other. This is a serious book of theological debate? It’s ridiculous. 

Marcus sits down on Phil’s bed and nods at the book. “Did you find religion out there in the desert?”

Phil snorts and throws the Bible onto the floor. “Hardly.”

Marcus waits, but when Phil doesn’t go on, he shrugs. “I heard from Agent May again - she’s the one who was with me when we found you.” 

He peers at Phil like he’s asking a question, so Phil nods. “I remember her.”

Marcus exhales. “I wasn’t sure. You were pretty out of it there, for a while.”

Phil bites back the words he wants to say. “Well, I was feverish.”

“So feverish you turned back to look for a man who doesn’t exist,” Marcus points out. 

“I got confused,” Phil says. “I thought Kowalski was with us, or maybe it was Clint Ho, from Operations.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

Marcus shrugs. “At least we got you back.”

Phil summons a smile. “Thank you for coming to find me, Marcus,” he says, because that’s what he’s expected to say. 

Marcus smiles. “Ah well, it was the least I could do, seeing as you saved my life and all.”

_Clint helped,_ Phil wants to argue. _He’s the only reason we got out of there alive._ “You’re welcome,” he says instead. “What happened back at base? I can’t believe the brass gave you permission to come back for me.”

Marcus snorts. “Hardly. No, the medics patched me up - enough to at least be able to move on my own - and I went straight to S.H.I.E.L.D. I told them their cheap-ass warning wasn’t good enough, and now they owed me. I told them that I was going back for you, and I wanted help. They sent May.”

Phil nods. “So, what happens next?”

Marcus shrugs. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.” He glances around at nondescript recovery room. “What do you see yourself doing next?”

Phil frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Well, the Army isn’t too happy with us, for a bunch of bureaucratic reasons. They don’t like that I’ve only got the one eye, either.” He gestures to the new patch. “They want to shuffle me into desk duty.”

Phil makes a face on his behalf, and Marcus chuckles. “Yeah, that’s about what I told them. S.H.I.E.L.D. says they don’t care, though.” He watches Phil carefully. “They made me a pitch, and said they’d be willing to take us both.”

Phil isn’t sure what to feel. “You want me to leave the Army?”

Marcus shrugs. “I want to go where I’m going to do some good, and I wanted to know if you felt like coming along.”

Phil thinks about going back to the barracks, the Mess, and the field - all without Clint at his side. “Yeah,” he says, nodding. “I’m in.”

 

*

 

S.H.I.E.L.D. is different than the Army - it’s like going to military school again, only in reverse. Instead of hard lines and a strict code, there’s a looseness to the organization that Phil thinks Clint would have appreciated. He never did care for the rigidity of the Army. He probably would have done well at S.H.I.E.L.D.

Phil finds the adjustment harder. He’s used to the enforced structure of the military. Without it - and without Clint - he can feel himself sliding. The recklessness reappears in his chest, absent during his days in the hospital, and Phil has to work hard at keeping himself in line.

His days become strict, carefully regulated odes to perfectionism, and S.H.I.E.L.D. obviously appreciates the effort. He and Marcus are promoted quickly through the organization. Phil rapidly develops a reputation for well crafted ops, with backup plans for his backup plans, and an extra layer of contingency support. Marcus offers him a bittersweet smile, once or twice, but never comments.

Phil does his best not to dream of the desert, or of sand.

He continues his research, as best as he can. There isn’t a lot out there. If other people have had experiences similar to Phil's, they aren’t talking about it. There are a lot of nutjobs on the internet, but Phil soon discovers that the majority of them are hallucinating, or have been diagnosed with clinically significant schizophrenia, by a professional.

Phil hadn’t been hallucinating. Clint had been _real,_ and Phil’s going to find a way to see him again.

He’s been at S.H.I.E.L.D. for almost five years when he starts hearing rumours about a possible recruitment. There’s a sniper who's been dodging their best and brightest for going on six months now, a man who shoots with a _bow and arrow,_ of all things. 

“He’s an amazing marksman,” Agent Daher says, her eyes wide. “Like, absolutely incredible. He shot _through_ my open fingers to hit the gun smuggler in the face. I know I was supposed to bring DeGrecci in for questioning, and it sucks that this Hawkeye killed him for the bounty before we could do that, but still - that shot was impossible.”

“Obviously not, since he made it,” Phil interrupts, leaning over her table in the cafeteria. He’s annoyed with the praise, on Clint’s behalf - he’d be champing at the bit if he could hear this, arguing that, of course, his own aim was better.

“Um - of course not, Agent Coulson, sir,” Daher says nervously.

Phil pastes a smile on his face. He shouldn’t have said anything. The thing is, without Clint to help, the recklessness and anger that have been a part of him for so long are bubbling up again. “My apologies, Agent Daher. It sounds like an amazing shot.”

Marcus catches Phil’s eye on his way out of the cafeteria. “My office,” he says quietly, and refuses to say anything more until they're behind closed doors. When they’re alone in his office, Marcus turns to Phil with a frown. “What the hell was that?”

Phil swallows the words that are trying to crawl out of his throat. “Nothing. I’m sorry - I shouldn’t have snapped at her.”

Marcus frowns. “No, you shouldn’t have.” He turns to grab a file from his desk, and then hands it to Phil. “Read that.”

Phil blinks, but opens it. Inside is a dossier of everything they know - or rather _don’t_ know - about the elusive mercenary known as Hawkeye. “I don’t understand.”

“Assistant Director Johnson handed this to me today - she wants me to take point on the project, to bring Hawkeye into S.H.I.E.L.D.” Marcus stares at Phil with his one eye. “I think you should do it.”

Phil frowns. “Me? No - you know my opinion. There’s no way this guy is as good as everyone says.”

Marcus shrugs. “I think that’s a great reason for you to take the case - you’re the one person he can’t bullshit, who will call him on his facts. But more than that - ” He stops. “Phil. You’re spinning your wheels, here. You need something to sink your teeth into.”

Phil hates that he’s noticed. “I’m fine.”

“Are you?” Marcus asks, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve been steadily self destructing for the past five years. You’re a good man, and S.H.I.E.L.D. has given you purpose, but I think that if I’d left you in the Army, you’d be dead by now.”

Phil swallows. Marcus is right - brutally honest, but right. He looks away.

“Take the case, Cheese,” Marcus says gently, pushing the file into his hands. “Run this asshole down, call him on his nickname, and then offer him a place at S.H.I.E.L.D. It’ll be good for you.”

“Fine,” Phil says, because he’s just finished a time-sensitive op and he has no reason to say no. “I’ll do it.”

 

*

 

Hawkeye is… peculiar. Phil analyzes his list of known or suspected kills. They’re all bad people with bounties on their head, but the kills are - sporadic. Hawkeye will take an assassination on a drug cartel's second-in-command and leave the primary target untouched. He’ll refuse an obscene amount of money for one hit in a city he’s in, and then travel halfway across the continent for a low-paying job to kill someone completely different.

Phil can’t make sense of the contracts. Standard practice for this kind of recruitment at S.H.I.E.L.D. is to post a fake bounty and lie in wait when their person of interest takes it, but Phil has no idea how to manufacture a hit that Hawkeye would take.

Looking over the scattered kills located all over the world, Phil knows that Hawkeye must have made a slew of enemies. The Yakuza, in particular, must be seething that three of their proffered bounties have gone ignored, while Hawkeye has chosen other, less well-paying clients.

Sure enough, a month later, Phil gets word that Hawkeye is on the run. It’s not the Yakuza who have put a hit out on him, though, but the Turkish Mafia, who took offence when Hawkeye reneged on his contract and killed their lead Western Europe enforcer instead of his target. 

Phil jumps on the chance they’ve provided for him, and leaks Hawkeye’s suspected location to the Yakuza and the F.B.I. By dropping hints with his contacts, Phil is able to herd Hawkeye where he wants him.

“He’s here, in New York City,” Phil tells Assistant Director Johnson, who hadn’t been thrilled when Marcus had handed over Hawkeye’s recruitment to Phil, and who watches him carefully now. 

“Then go get him,” Johnson says, and Phil doesn’t need to be told twice.

He’s looking forward to meeting Hawkeye, to comparing the unconfirmed shots the assassin says he’s made with the accuracy Phil _knows_ Clint boasted. He has to admit that he’s learned some respect for the guy, though - Phil likes a man who can evade three powerful organizations at one time, for as long as he has. 

He’s never seen a picture of Hawkeye, or caught more than grainy footage from a security camera. He’s completely unprepared when he finally tracks the man down, in an abandoned apartment building not far from S.H.I.E.L.D.

“Stop!” Phil commands, chasing after the fleeing Hawkeye, following him through broken rooms and down hallways covered in dust. “I’m warning you!”

Hawkeye hesitates, but only for an instant, so Phil shoots him - in the leg, grazing his calf, a shot Clint would have been proud of. 

It’s got to be a shock. Hawkeye spins, knocked off balance, but manages to crash through a window and onto the roof. He tucks into a roll, coming up with his bow in his hands, an arrow nocked and ready on the string.

Phil has followed him through the window, but he stops when he sees that Hawkeye is armed. He raises his gun and they face each other, mere feet apart, his sidearm against Hawkeye’s lethal-looking bow.

It’s late afternoon, maybe early evening, the sky is growing dark, and there’s been a storm building all day. It’s still light enough for Phil to _see_ Hawkeye, though, to look into his eyes and gasp.

Blue and green and brown, and a whirlwind of hazel.

“Clint,” Phil breathes.

Hawkeye’s - _Clint’s_ \- eyes widen. “Phil?”

It isn’t real - it _can’t_ be real - except Hawkeye drops his bow and Phil drops his gun and then Clint is _there,_ in his arms, clutching at his back and pulling him closer. Phil scrambles at his shoulders, feeling down his sides, tucking his nose into the pocket of Clint’s throat and _breathing_ him in and it’s _him._ It’s _Clint._

“It’s you,” Phil babbles. “When did you - _How_ are you - ?”

“I told you, I Chose, I just didn’t know - I didn’t know I would come back,” Clint says, his hands flexing and loosening around Phil’s shoulders. “I woke up in Iowa, where the circus had been when I - when I - ” He stops and pulls back enough to see Phil, enough to look into his eyes. “You’re _alive._ ”

“Me?” Phil argues with a laugh. He kisses Clint, and it’s all teeth and lips, but it’s perfect. “I’m fine. I saw you _die._ ”

“Well, yeah,” Clint says, suddenly awkward. “That’s what happens when you're mortal.”

Phil swallows and leans back again. “Mortal?”

Clint nods, licking his lips, his eyes on Phil. “Yeah. I, uh - it’s not, um, like the movies make it seem. It isn’t possession, or brainwashing, or anything. It’s just - when I was young, very little, my brother sold my soul to the devil. Only the devil didn’t take it - She’s not like the movies make her seem. Instead, She offered me a contract - a Choice. I would work for her until I wanted to stop.”

Phil shakes his head. “But you said She - the Boss - wouldn’t be pleased.”

Clint rolls his eyes. “Not about me, you idiot,” he says, “about _you._ You’re a certified hero now, Phil - you risked your life and certain death to save a friend. That puts you firmly in White Hat territory.”

Phil frowns. “I was only able to save Marcus because of you.”

Clint nods. “And that’s why She was kind of pissed at me. She’s not exactly, you know, _benevolent._ That’s kind of the point. She’s like - fire. Hot and angry and reckless and uncaring of collateral damage, except that She’s beautiful and sometimes, if you treat her right, She can keep you safe.” He smiles at Phil shyly. “I think you’d like Her.”

Phil doesn’t know what to say to that. “So what happened next?”

“Well, I made my Choice - I decided I wanted to be human again, to be able to stay behind and cover your escape in a way I couldn’t before, and I died. I went back, and I saw Her. We - talked. She’s still pissed, but She understands. She let me come back.”

Phil’s hands tighten on Clint’s waist. “Forever?”

“For as long as a human life will give me, yeah,” Clint says. He licks his lips. “I thought you were dead, though. I went back to - to the desert, and the Army said you’d been K.I.A.” He looks down at the uniform Phil is wearing, at the eagle on his chest. “S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

“Yeah,” Phil says, dizzy with the hope that this is really happening, that Clint is really here. “I didn’t realize anyone would be looking for me.”

“I’ll always come back to you, Phil,” Clint promises him. “You and me, remember?”

“Always,” Phil breathes, dragging him in again. “Yes.”

 

 

Epilogue

 

Phil had been right - Clint _does_ take well to S.H.I.E.L.D. They don't seem to care that there are abnormalities in his paperwork, or that ‘Clint Barton’ never actually appears to have existed. Clint is Hawkeye, and he can do what S.H.I.E.L.D. needs him to do, and that is that. 

“Barton?” Phil asks, reading the new I.D. card Clint hands him. 

Clint shrugs. “I was at the Baltimore Riots,” he explains. “Clara Barton was quite the woman.”

“Is that when you learned how to use a bow and arrow?” Phil asks, curious.

“No,” Clint says, and doesn’t tell him more, until they’re lying together in bed. Sex now is somehow even better than it had been before - Clint has always known Phil’s body, but now Phil can learn Clint’s in a way that he had never been able to. Clint is more responsive, more overwhelmed with sensation. “Do that again,” he’d gasped, when Phil had tweaked one of his nipples.

Phil had been happy to oblige.

“I learned in the circus,” Clint confesses. “We ran away from home after our parents were killed, and Carson’s took us in. It was - good, for a while. I learned how to shoot a bow. Barney didn’t like it, though. He never had the skill that I had. He thought he could convince the devil to take it from me and give it to him.”

Phil shivers, drawing Clint in closer. “Do you know whatever happened to him?”

Clint shakes his head. “It was a very long time ago. As it was happening, though, I knew Barney wouldn’t get what he wanted. I could - ” he hesitates, “I could _see,_ somehow, Barney’s greed, and how it would twist any gift he was given.” He swallows. “I can still see that, sometimes.”

Phil hugs him closer. “Oh?” He thinks back over Clint’s list of kills. “Is that why you chose the contracts you did?”

Clint nods. “Some people are worse than others, too twisted to make anything good. Some people just need a nudge.” He smiles wryly. “That was you.”

Phil laughs. “I think you gave me restraint, more than anything else. A bad habit for a devil to have.”

Clint rolls over and kisses him. “You were always perfect,” he says. “Bright and shining, and so, _so_ much fun.” He grins suddenly. “Oh, the trouble we will make.”

Phil laughs. “I have the sneaking suspicion that this time it’ll be _me_ reining _you_ in.”

“I dare you to try,” Clint says with a wicked smile.

Phil hugs him close. “Challenge accepted.”

 

~ The End


End file.
